


Syrcus Tower 2; Exarch System

by lighthouse



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Exarch AI, Friendship, M/M, Macross - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SPAAAAACE, Sci-Fi, Semi-Slow Burn, There will be fluff, jets!, minor influences from Gundam Pacific Rim etc, relationship exploration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25642180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lighthouse/pseuds/lighthouse
Summary: 150 years after the Source is rendered barren by the Flood, the survivors and their descendants struggle to carry on with their lives in a series of space colonies orbiting their doomed star, ever dogged by the Lightwardens and sin eaters that mysteriously appeared in the aftermath of the calamity. The fight has been long, many colonies sunk or rendered unlivable...but today is the day that the war will end. In Lakeland, the A.I. Exarch System stands poised and ready on the stage deck of Syrcus Tower 2 to sing his Variable Fighters to victory--especially his beloved Warrior of Light--even as he prepares for a new, hidden endeavor, his role in the struggle far more valuable than anyone realizes. Meanwhile, in his gilded city atop the crumbling ruins of Belah'dia Ascended, God Emperor Vauthry schemes toward his own goals of colonial dominance, waiting for the moment Exarch caves beneath the weight of his many burdens.A merging of FFXIV and Macross, also drawing on Gundam and Pacific Rim. I will be playing in the ShB sandbox, but this is far from a retelling. There will be robots, there will be jets and singing and drama! And hopefully an interesting new take on the character of our beloved Crystal Exarch.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	Syrcus Tower 2; Exarch System

“Alright, anti-grav’s on fer gods’ sake, you can get up now,” the burly pilot said with affected exasperation, but G’raha Tia had his safety harness unsnapped and was nearly to the back of the heavily modded two-seater roegadyn transport before the sentence finished. Breathlessly, he pressed his hands beside the rounded window and rose up on his tiptoes, leaning forward so much that his nose nearly touched the cool glass. 

“Sweet Azeyma,” he murmured, grateful that Rammbroes couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes.

The Source, as he’d dreamed all his life that he might see it—the rolling green of Coerthas, Limsa, and Gridania giving way to the gold and ecru sands of Thanalan and Ala Mhigo, the snow-capped mountains of his native Ilsabard rolling away to the north, the gentle curvature of the continent cradled in pristine blue waters that flowed on to the Far East. Here and there clouds feathered lines in the atmosphere, and he could just make out the beginnings of a late summer typhoon forming off the coast of distant Othard. He squinted and scanned until he found the rocky clearing he was searching for, and there it was—the Syrcus Tower, a crystalline circle of blue amidst the blighted lands of Mor Dhona. He’d always heard it could be seen from space, and hot tears finally tracked down his cheeks as he looked down on the place where he’d given the last eight years of his life for this project. That the Tower could be so small against the backdrop of the world was humbling.

“Aye, it never gets old,” the project leader called from the front, leaning over to have a look himself. “Can’t tell everyone’s at war, up here. If people could see this, maybe there wouldn’t be so much fightin’.”

“Perhaps so,” he answered absently, not truly believing his own words. Like as not if the Empire ever made it into space there’d be an ancient Allag superweapon pointed at the Source in short order. He sighed and dropped down to stand properly, then turned and started inputting his personal code into the vault security pad, tail swishing. “I’m going to make sure Salina didn’t incur issues when we cleared the atmosphere,” he called back as the thick, reinforced hydraulic doors hissed open.

“Leave her alone boy, she’s fine,” Rammbroes replied. “Been tested in anti-grav a million times.”

“Yes, but I don’t _know_ she’s fine, so I’m going to check,” he insisted, inputting the second round of security codes to unseal her pod.

“Don’t wake her up then! She’ll be on about piloting the ship, and I’ve been looking forward to this too much to indulge her,” the roe grumbled. The Seeker smiled as the final layer of glass slid back to reveal the gently sweeping lines of the AI’s sleek white frame, the crystal blue of her visor displaying a low frequency line indicating simulated sleep where she stood latched in to her temporary power source. The pride and joy of his family, the most advanced AI ever created, her development synonymous with Eorzea’s proud (and increasingly precautionary) advance into space. 

He knew Rammbroes would leave over and let her pilot—the project leader loved her. Everyone did, from the Syrcus Tower researchers to her maintenance staff at Garlond Ironworks…and of course his team at the Baldesion Institute, where her conception was engineered over generations of work by his own family. To think that he would be the one to finally bring their exuberant, charismatic, gentle creation to fulfill her role at Syrcus Tower 2…it was a dream come true, what he’d hoped for ever since he was a kit. Well, after he gave up on his notions of piloting a Valkyrie, at any rate.

“She alright back there?” Rammbroes asked, anxious despite his earlier grousing.

“Yes, she’s stable,” he answered, eyes flicking over the diagnostics as they appeared. There were plenty of critics of this particular humanoid, empathetic AI approach--especially the entrenched camp of logic-obsessed scholars at Sharlayan who believed that their upcoming no-frills Gubal System would be better suited to handling colonial management. He’d seen the precursors of that nondescript cube of an AI though, and found it extremely disconcerting that anyone would allow such a heartless machine to manage their everyday lives. Granted, he supposed Salina System wouldn’t need her sparkling charm to organize automatic waste management or control the levels of oxygen in the colonial atmospheres, but she _cared_ about people, cared about how her choices might impact the lives of those she was built to look after. He also firmly believed that it would be a welcome comfort to citizens that she could be seen and interacted with, as opposed to a shadowy program that tirelessly maintained basic colonial functions.

Affiliated with the Syrcus Tower though he was, he’d always found it alarming how much of his life was automated by myriad systems running on the Tower’s energies. The lights and ambient thermostats managed themselves, the food could be ready when he arrived home if he so directed, the carriages drove autonomously, the lab coffee was always prepared at exact intervals.

What would they do if, gods forbid, the Empire ever managed to take the Tower? How many people had little to no awareness how much machines dominated their lives? The question had dogged his family for centuries, well after most of the world’s population had sunk into complacence with their dependence on Syrcus Tower for comfort. Not that he blamed them per se, but for the longest time he’d felt that something was… _missing_ …in his life, some aspect of decision-making, of meaningful relationships with others. Of unpredictability and adventure. He’d known all his life that his parents were working on Salina, but it wasn’t until he joined the project himself that he understood _why_ his father insisted that he meet people face to face, or that his mother made sure he learned to cook even though cooking wasn’t strictly necessary anymore.

Salina would be good for the colonies, he was sure of it, and with the completion two years prior of Syrcus Tower 2, she was finally going to have a chance to prove her mettle. To meet the happy medium of providing failsafe programs to manage Eorzea Alpha and Beta’s safety protocols, to give the people some level of the comfort they had living on the Source, and to remind them that there were souls and thoughts and ideas behind the systems that made their everyday lives possible. It was unfortunate that Salina herself would be tethered to the Tower to maintain her power levels, but she loved stories, dared to dream of better, and he hoped that her enterprising spirit would encourage the colonists to turn their eyes to the stars and want *more*. 

Also, she was a hell of a singer, and he hoped that the songs he’d written for her would be popular with the colonists once she was established enough to sing them. Thanks to his family’s early influence in the construction there was even a stage deck built into the mid-levels of Syrcus Tower 2, where in theory she would perform and eventually encourage others to join in on the development of a unique colonial art culture. He was greatly looking forward to it, and so was she.

 _I wonder when it was that you became yourself, and not the sum of your programs_ , he thought affectionately, reaching out to lay his hand gently on her warm helm. 

The ship gave a sudden minor lurch, and he nearly dropped the diagnostic pad when his skin prickled with a light charge of static.

“What was that?” he called, just as he registered the roe murmuring a puzzled

“…the hell?”

He frowned as he put down his work and stepped out of the vault.

“Did you hit a….” He trailed off as he took in the larger man’s pale face, frozen in a rictus of alarm as he stared sideways out the cockpit window. Dread knotted his stomach, and he whirled to balance on his tiptoes and peer outside once more.

His legs nearly collapsed beneath him as he took in the massive shockwave of what appeared to be cloud and earth climbing into the atmosphere, billowing out rapidly in a circle from where the Syrcus Tower had stood only moments before.

It did not stop.

“Rammbroes,” he cried faintly, then louder, “Rammbroes! Turn on the comm!” That this was a top secret flight hardly mattered now. The roe slapped at the dashboard a few times in his panic before the direct link to Val opened in a burst of ear splitting static.

“*Kzshhhhshhhhhhh* all will *kzzzch* soon *khshshshhhh* rejoining *kzssszzzz*…”

“What the…?” the roe exclaimed, smashing at the dials to change the line. “This is Baldesion Institute AI Research Coordinator Rammbroes Zasertylsen of the St. Coinach. We are en route to Syrcus Tower 2 bearing—“

The next thing he knew he was flat on his stomach against the starboard windows, stunned and ears ringing from the impact. He stared down with confusion at the stars beneath him, breath searing in his lungs as the ship vibrated so hard he felt he might shake apart. The sound of crumpling metal reached him as if through a sludge, and when he ponderously managed to turn his head to investigate, he found the gunmetal grey walls of the ship warping into creamy, luminescent bubbles. Slowly the tendrils of transmuting metal drifted toward him, and when a thin fissure of luminous alloy reached his fingers it stung as of acid. Lethargically he stared at the welts already forming on his fingertips, white and shining. 

“Get up, boy, get up!” a voice roared in his ear, and he choked as he was yanked forcefully to his feet by the collar. He stared dumbfounded at Rammbroes’ wild-eyed and bloodied form, to the cockpit melting before his very eyes. He knew he should move, should do something, but what that might be wouldn’t quite come to him. He could only blink as he was grabbed again by the upper arm, and stumbled headfirst into Salina as he was practically thrown into the vault. He pulled himself up and watched blankly as Rammbroes backed out. 

“You’re a good kid,” the grandfatherly roe murmured, and then the doors slammed closed with a sharp hiss. 

“Rammbroes?” he asked faintly, confused in the sudden dark. 

“Oh, Raha…” Salina murmured in that sweet voice that always somehow reminded him of his grandmother, of trips to the countryside and morning dew on apple blossoms. He lost his balance as she pulled him close, her hands firm at his lower back and the nape of his neck. Shakily, he rested his cheek on the solid warmth of her shoulder.

“S-Salina, I think--”

The last sensation he registered was the sharp tang of metal on his tongue.

_*150 Years and Four Moons Later*_

Exarch closed his eyes, tapped his elegant fingers against the dash of his viewing console as he concentrated on the trajectory of the spiral cut by the twin motes swirling in their containment within his breast. The pitch of their chatter fluctuated, accompanied by the most minute subspace chemical release, the spirals tightened...

“Now,” he said decisively, opening his bright, crimson eyes, chin lifted high and expression set with purpose as his simple command began the chain of orders that would launch one hundred and fifty three Variable Fighters across Eorzea Alpha and Beta. Within moments offers of local assistance were offered by squadrons from neighboring Il Mheg and Padjali, which he accepted with heartfelt gratitude. 

“I’m going on deck,” he announced to his granddaughter, who gave a sound of long-suffering frustration in her throat but made no move to hinder him. 

“I thought as much...I’ve already taken the liberty of readying the Golmore, just in case,” the Viis replied. “And don’t you dare to argue with me about this.” He nodded, accepting her stubborn resolve in turn—her armored presence on the stage had saved him more than once. Privately he strongly felt that she deserved better than the customized role she’d wrought for herself as his bodyguard, and not for the first time a wave of guilt lapped at his conscience that she had grounded herself so on his behalf. She was a fine, stalwart, compassionate soul, and he liked to think he’d raised her well...though she deserved the most credit for her own development, especially given the circumstances of her upbringing.

Anyroad, as far as everyone believed this encounter with Storge would be the battle that would see the war ended if everything went well, and he would not be content to sing his fighters unto glory from the safe confines of his quarters, to bless their efforts with a mere hologram. No, he wanted to be _seen_ , wanted to show them that he would stand just as he asked of them. He smiled to himself as the first wave of pilots pinged and synced into his peripheral awareness. 

“Welcome to Exarch System,” he sent warmly along the lines, along with the sync permissions that would make them just as aware of the enemy’s whereabouts as he was. 

Ten minutes and counting down. 

He eyed himself briefly in the mirror--yes, he was as sleek and polished as he could manage--then undid the simple black tie that held his short braid in place, shook out his red hair until it fell in tidy waves to his white-plated shoulders. Perhaps he should have seen to the tips—they were going pearlescent again—but then, it felt more personal to allow the effects of aetherial wear on his systems to show. He rarely went on deck to perform in person, and even rarer still with his hair down--he hoped they would appreciate the symbolism. Satisfied, he focused his concentration, sent along a few messages, and within moments was striding purposefully across the Syrcus 2 stage deck, awestruck and humbled as ever to look upon the myriad flights of Valkyries that launched into the firmament at his behest, their pilots winking into recognition on his network as they synced in. 

His steps faltered, systems flickering as the Light roiling within gave a shrill cry to its kin and a sudden, sharp delve into foldspace, but he quashed the distraction with experience born of years of practice. 

“Are you alright?” Lyna commed from her position at the back of the deck, and he felt the stage vibrate as she shifted her mighty Golmore’s armored weight in a subconscious show of concern. 

“I’m fine,” he answered, perhaps more crisply than he’d intended, then, “I’ll let you know if I’m not feeling well,” more gently, to soothe over any hurt he might have caused. 

He would not fail, not tonight, not when his greatest undertaking was yet to be begun. As he reached the edge of the stage he gave an artful flick of his fingers, a private code outlined in the angles of his gestures, and above him his holographic form bloomed into life, his robed likeness hovering magnified and enhanced before the cerulean glow of Syrcus Tower 2. Fierce and alive with the fortitude of his brave, defiant citizens, both he and his summoned avatar spread their arms out to the sides in tandem, welcoming his pilots as they took wing. He inhaled a deep breath, the bellows of his lungs filled to burst, then let loose his first pure notes into the night.

_Stand tall!_

Synced within the protective auspices of his neural network, one hundred and eighty seven pilots lifted their varied voices in enthusiastic, passionate reply.

_Stand tall!_

Now all there was to do was wait, and perhaps check in on his favorite, the one who synced with him so closely that sometimes he swore he felt the man’s heartbeat as his own. Not strictly necessary, but everyone deserved a treat now and then, himself included. 

Their usual greeting concluded, Evi’a quelled the stirring of his heart at those ethereal, shared notes and went about his pre-engagement checklist, the steps so worn into his mind as to be second nature. 

“Everyone looking good out there?” he sent to his flight as he worked, and was pleased to note how quickly everyone indicated affirmative. They were a damn good team, and if they could just get this done tonight...gods, then they’d all have to find better things to do with their lives, most likely. Although, he supposed that even with the last Warden gone, there might still be some call for pilots to stay on and patrol for stray eaters. He shifted restlessly, ran a hand over the cockpit controls with bittersweet fondness.

He wasn’t sure if he could retire, not again, not after what happened the last time he made an attempt at a normal life. The Keeper frowned, and after a moment’s thought, hesitantly opened a comm line.

“Maybe this is it, so...wishing you and the crew well out there, Ardbert.” There was a long stretch of white noise.

“...Yeah,” came the eventual, flat answer, and then the line cut. The Keeper sighed, closed his own end of the communication. He supposed he ought to take any response at all as a positive sign, but it was still disappointing, if not unexpected. A calm series of chimes echoed over his synchronization to Exarch System, indicating likely engagement in seven minutes and counting down. He closed his eyes, willed himself to focus on Exarch’s awareness, the gentling cadence of his wavelengths. Now was not the time to dwell on past regrets.

“Good evening, Flight Commander Llyrhai,” a mellifluous voice said from behind him. He came back to himself and raised his eyebrows in pleased greeting as a familiar holographic form floated down to lightly rest its gold-embellished hands on the side of the pilot’s chair and regard him with eyes of warm crimson. 

“Hello Exarch,” he said amiably. “I see you’re out on deck tonight.”

“Yes, it does seem appropriate, given the occasion,” the hologram stated, a self-conscious flush rising to his cheeks. Evi’a flicked his helmeted ears and smiled back, and wondered not for the first time if those physical response displays were deliberate or built into Exarch’s programming. 

“Oh, is Exarch with you?” Ysayle’s kindly voice inquired through the comm. “Tell him I made his rolanberry cake from the Bismarck Review the other night and it was divine.”

“Seconding that! Er, not that I made it myself, nicked it off Ysa, but if I may suggest, it pairs nicely with spiced rum,” Haurchefant chimed in. 

“Ah, let him know I quite enjoy his new “Do You Remember Love?”, the upbeat version is such a nice spin on the original!” Renda-Rae exclaimed.

“I like the new one too! The classic rendition is still lovely though,” Ysayle added fondly.

“Tell him “Do you Remember Love?” is overplayed, and I am a man on the edge,” Sidurgu muttered.

“Will you lot shut up and do your jobs! This is no time to be complacent,” Alisaie snapped, and with some grumbling the line went silent once more. Evi’a shrugged in helpless apology, and Exarch chuckled. 

“Well, everyone is lively tonight, it seems,” the hologram said genially, tail swishing behind him. 

“Always,” Evi’a answered simply, not inclined to speak more lest he give way his unseemly enthusiasm, how covertly happy it always made him when Exarch deigned to drop in on him like this. If he were completely honest with himself, he would terribly miss these brief opportunities to speak with the beloved AI if he were to quit piloting, these unpredictable little rays of light shining through the darkness of all that he’d lost. 

Said AI had his expression fixed intently upon the star speckled horizon. 

“They’ll be here soon. You’ve made sure your Silver Fullers are in line?”

“Of course. Sid’s ready to go when you give the signal,” he assured. It went without saying that he’d prepared his own cockpit to take on the au ra when the man’s matte black Thunderbolt was rendered a dead weight thanks to the Fuller’s draining operation requirements. 

“Oh? Not Haurchefant?” the hologram asked with surprise, which was understandable. This potentially being the final battle, it would have been rather poetic for the elezen to use the technology he’d inadvertently helped bring about--but the process was risky, and it wasn’t his turn. 

“No, but he will be taking the point. He insisted.”

“I should think so,” Exarch said with an approving nod, then frowned and looked away for a moment before turning to face him once more. “I won’t trouble you with details now, but when this is done and you’ve had a chance to rest, there’s...there’s a favor I should like to ask of you,” the hologram said, his ears canting back with what looked like deferral, or perhaps bashfulness? 

“If there’s anything I can do to help you, I will...you’ve done so much for all of us,” Evi’a said earnestly, and he meant it from the bottom of his heart. The way Exarch’s ears perked at those words, the way his eyes shone...AI or not, there was no way the pilot could imagine denying him.

“Very good then, let us both see to it that you and yours come back safely. Fly well, my dear one,” the hologram said softly, and then winked out of sight. The Keeper took a deep breath and leaned back into the comforting form of his seat. 

It felt good to be cared for, even if it probably was just AI programming to look after the vaunted “Warrior of Light”. 

“‘My dear one?’ That twinkling pixie’s distracting you from your cause,” a sharp voice cut into his mind, and he winced, a hand shooting up to adjust the dampeners just beneath his Exarch System linkport. “Think of all Storge took from you, all that you will never have-” The voice cut off just as abruptly, cancelled out by the soothing waves of the neural modulator. 

“That’s quite enough out of you for now, Esteem,” he sighed, once more running a hand over the worn controls of his problematic old mentor. 

Deep in the darkened, sparking mid-levels of Belah’dia Ascended, a message came through, coded and quiet. The man who received the transmission only nodded grimly in response--there would be no need to communicate a reply. Instead, he turned back toward the door--the creamy marble of the frame carved with angelic figures and inlaid with gold. After a cursory knock, he pushed it open and stepped inside the equally opulent aureate chambers.

“Ah, did you forget something?” the young girl inquired kindly with a puzzled expression. He stared at her intently for a moment, her golden hair radiant in the warm lighting, her flowing nightclothes pristinely white. As always he swallowed back his anger and discomfort at what she was unknowingly being styled to depict. 

“Could you turn on your radio for me to the Lakeland channel? There’s something I’d like to hear,” he said quietly. She looked to him quizzically but obeyed. She was only allowed a few specific wavelengths, but he’d altered the device quite some time back and no one seemed the wiser. Yet. He took a breath as the lyrics of a poignant, familiar song reached his ears, the tones of that sweet voice elevating the melody as no other ever could, and realization of what must surely be about to occur sank into his troubled heart. 

_“These memories ache with the weight of tomorrow…”_

“Oh, it’s Exarch, his voice is so lovely,” Ryne whispered breathlessly. She had no way of knowing why the AI was singing, and he wasn’t about to tarnish her enjoyment. He nodded to her, backed out of the room once more, and activated his linkpearl.

“My Lord Vauthry, Exarch’s fighters have engaged Storge. He’s singing the song.” 

“Yes, I’m already watching,” came the distracted reply, although he did not miss the undertone of obsessive fixation that was ever-present when the self-styled God Emperor spoke of Lakeland’s beloved caretaker. 

“Any orders, or shall I hold?” he asked diligently. 

“Hold. And Thancred? See to it that our little cherub is kept calm and comfortable. It won’t be long, yet.” The line cut, and his lips pressed into a hard line as he reached out to lay a scarred hand on the polished wooden door. 

Her time was running out. 

Casually, he let his hand slide away from her door and moved to lean against the flaking wall across the hallway, ever the dutiful guard. It was boring work, and it couldn’t be helped that he needed to fidget, that his fingers wandered to the drainpipe and began to tap out a tuneless little beat. 

He could just make out the tremulous notes of the girl’s voice, muffled through the aetherial shields sealing her in. 

_“The eternal winds to the land descend…”_

Surrounded by his loyal eaters and the hedonistic smiles of the Ascended, God Emperor Vauthry’s corpulent, gold-plated form lounged on crimson pillows of silk, the white noise of his prolific augmentations a constant hum reminding him that he was _more_. Though his appearance was one of indolence his pale bionic eyes were sharp, their apertures spiraling rapidly to adjust as he trained his gaze on Exarch’s bright, diminutive form on the crystalline stage of Syrcus Tower 2. 

“So he does mean to do it, that insolent, disingenuous little shite,” he muttered as the caretaker warbled his twee tune of hope and redemption. 

_“Pray don’t forget us, your bygone kin, with one world’s end as a new begin…”_

He gave a puff of disgust. The AI fancied himself the caretaker of Lakeland, and for all the people indulged his whims he still fell short of his capabilities, of what he could have been to them. What sort of caretaker did not _take,_ did not claim what was rightfully his? With the Tower at his back and the aspected Light locked within, he was certain Exarch could subjugate every remaining colony should he wish--put a definitive halt on the endless religious bickering in Il Mheg, the useless infighting of the Xaela when their energies would be far more profitable elsewhere. He could even wrest away the minds of his fighters with his unique syncing capabilities and have a personal air force at his every whim. 

He could turn about and make a solid attempt on Belah’dia and Amh Araeng.

But the AI would never, his nondescript white form underlaid with black a testament to his bland, predictable personality. Granted there was the gold filigree edging the AI’s plates that he’d grudgingly adopted when he officially established the Crystarium, and it was a little fancy that the marking went crystalline blue from time to time, but the emperor digressed. Capable as the caretaker was of directing a thousand Variable Fighters at once, at the end of the cycle Exarch was sentimental and soft, just as he’d been programmed to be. 

That was where Vauthry knew himself to be superior. Not a slave to his programs but a master of them, born hyuran and self-engineered into a greater being, deified when he conspired to use the sum of his parts to take in the creature now pacing circles within his breast, snapping and clamoring to be fed. 

No matter, there were always more fragile souls longing for Ascension, and the more the creature took in, the more his vapid, loyal army grew.

It was not lost on him however that the numbers he had to draw from were steadily dwindling, the ungrateful among his citizens disappearing into the night on cloaked ships that even his eaters were powerless to detect. He scowled at the hacked newsfeed, now showing Exarch’s graceful hologram robed in red, black, and white, his projected image markedly more naturally miqo’te than his android form. The emperor nearly pitied the AI his pathetic wistfulness for an organic body, but certain as he was that Exarch was behind the flight of the citizens of Belah’dia 2 and Amh Araeng, he had little and less sympathy to spare. 

His eyes narrowed as the feed shifted and Storge came into view enveloped by a swarm of Valkyries and a hodgepodge of intercolonial combat mechs, the blank-eyed golden disc of its manifestation surrounded by the radiant wings that sank the colonies of Tusi Mek’ta and Nymeia. 

Let him have it, if he wanted to shoulder the burden so badly. Let him siphon away the wretched souls on the lower levels--the poor always bred like rats anyway, and though the defiance was galling it was not as though the emperor’s pet would lack for fodder. Let him sing his cheap love songs and flit about the stage, let his people grow complacent with their frivolous keychains and plushes of their equally ridiculous leader. Exarch was already old and suffering, and if the emperor’s prime source was correct, he was refusing to be moved to a new chassis. The AI wouldn’t hold forever, and when he fell, Vauthry would be waiting to strike--both for ownership of the Tower and for the final key to what made Exarch System tick.

 _“He’s better than you could ever hope be,”_ the shrill little voice within spat, dripping with loathing. He rolled his eyes, smirked at her squeal when he stuffed the fraying tendrils of her foggy consciousness back into her confinement chip. 

“You’re hardly in a position to speak,” he gloated smugly. Still, he tired of her interference, and was well past the need for her guidance. Perhaps it was time to set in motion the painstaking preparations for her ascendance into a form more...amenable to his needs.

At the deepest, darkest level of the crumbling colony an off-color drum of notes broke the hushed silence. So signaled, a transport cloaked in shields of bluespirit and exacting mudra slipped unnoticed from the painstakingly camouflaged dock, bearing one hundred and fourteen huddled and starving Belah’dian refugees to their new lives.

Deep in the meditative sync of Exarch system, there was little need for Evi’a to bother with communication with his crew. Intimately aware of the foe’s position and that of his allies, it was simply a matter of focus and trusting in his natural instinct to weave in the right direction, to fire where it mattered. There was a personal, primal quality to fighting like this, Esteem’s sleek black and silver form moving with him as though they were of one body and mind. He wondered if the tribal miqo’te of eld felt this way when they hunted on the Source, rejoicing in the lithe prowess of their movements as they brought down their prey, working in tandem with little more than whistles and clicks. Perhaps piloting soothed some basic inclination that could no longer be satisfied in the wild. 

A severed, effulgent wing cartwheeled bare ilms over his cockpit and he adjusted, light and easy, turned about and did an effortless back to back spin with Ren, fell back and cast a shield for her as she loosed a shot that sent Light-charged feathers flying. 

“Thanks for that, you swiving show-offs,” Alisaie snapped as the exploding projectiles forced her bright red and white unit to barrel roll out of the way. He allowed himself the barest of sharp grins—out of all of them, Alisaie’s ability to sync with Exarch was lowest, and as a result their comm links were often peppered with her colorful commentary.

“Anytime!” Ren sang. 

He was too deep in the sync to answer, but appreciated the varying edges of their perception. He had personal business with Storge, and knew that if he came into this fray with aught but his own thoughts, the nature of his participation would have been very different indeed. Judging from the pressure against his dampeners, Esteem sensed the dichotomy as well, was pushing hard for an approach of a different nature...but as before every battle he’d made a conscious decision to follow the well-rounded judgement of Exarch System, to not allow himself to be lost in the throes of his personal vendettas when so much was at stake. 

Another severed wing hurtled lifelessly past, this time plated in the crimson and gold remains of some poor soul Storge had absorbed, mech and all, to expand its angelic form. A Sazaby pilot, from the look of it. Distantly he noted the dented sigil of the Crimson Lotus of New Othard—probably the battle of Kugane Shade, the only known time Storge had ventured that far east. His traitorous mind threatened to wander along the details of that incident, but now was certainly not the time. 

The Warden, shorn of its multitudinous appendages, was beginning to disperse into blinding, deadly motes of concentrated Light. 

By unspoken accord he and the rest of his flight pulled into a tight arrowhead formation, Haurchefant’s unicorn sigiled red and black VF-25 on point as promised, Sid taking the center in his Thunderbolt, while Ysayle and himself flanked in their older YF-19s and Alisaie and Renda brought up the rear in their high-end Durandals. All around them other flights were doing the same, and across the network he could just make out Ardbert’s bronze and cream Messiah taking the center for his own team. 

All there was to do now was circle and wait. 

_“From those who’ve fallen to those who arise…”_

Exarch watched with fierce pride as his fighters down to a mech pulled into formation with their flights, and across the field there was the tell-tale bloom of silvery light from the center-positioned pilots as they readied their Silver Fullers. How long had they fought and suffered to reach this moment? He leaned forward with tense anticipation as he continued his song, systems firing into overdrive as he manifested the walls that would keep his well-meaning granddaughter at bay. Every remaining shred of his awareness thereafter was directed toward analyzing the spiraling of the Light within, waiting for the instant when the last cohesive thread binding the Warden together snapped. His hologram flickered, but he paid it no mind--the timing had to be perfect. 

Within his breast twin dimensional folds collapsed in a primal fight or flight reaction. 

_Now_ , he growled along the network, even as motor function in his right arm shut down along with several auxiliary systems, as he continued his song of hope for his warriors, for all of the colonists who would be able live in relative peace from this day forward. 

A song that in the depths of whatever remained of his soul, he’d written and composed for the Warrior of Light, who synced with him as no other ever had.

_Stand tall my friend, may all of the dark deep inside you find light again…_

The last remaining Lightwarden burst into a thousand thousand bright shards of murderous intent, and at the exact same moment thirty one specialized inversion railguns fired into the supernova. Within the space of three heartbeats, the Warden’s particles were forcibly sluiced over the central positions before it could attempt to absorb the fighters into a new entity, its darkening remains slingshotted directly toward Syrcus Tower 2. 

Just where Exarch wanted them.

He could hear the cheers flaring up over hundreds of channels, public and private. The celebration was premature, but he understood that most believed the Warden vanquished--they could no longer see the particles, after all. It was a boon and a great relief that therefore none would be able to determine what he was about to do. His right arm dead at his side and visual capabilities stuttering, he planted his feet firmly on the deck, summoned up the Tower’s aether to back his own, and _called._

_I’m here, I’ll have you, I’m here…_

Ravenous and deprived of its natural targets, the inverted particles gave a primordial, voiceless roar, and bore down upon him as a javelin thrown from the heavens. He stumbled as the miasmatic Warden slammed into his being, as the gnashing, broken-down entities already caged within rose up in aid of their brethren. His visual and auditory capabilities cut, and he fought against the fear clawing at the back of his consciousness as he forced himself to remain open, to take in every last charged ion.

A crystalline blue message popped in his central cortex. 

*Error--Operation parameters exceeded--Error--Ope-* 

“Not now,” he ground out, willing himself to stand tall. 

His hologram cut along with his song, and with that drain cancelled his vision returned, pixelated in monotone, his hearing in waves of static. 

*Warning--Critical System Overload--Shutdown Imminent--Warning--* 

A profound sense of hollowness struck him to the core as his treasured synchronization subsystem abruptly failed.

“No, no, not right now,” he prayed desperately, to any entity that might be willing to hear the pleas of an AI with a questionable claim to a soul.

“Is Exarch alright?” Sid asked with a frown, his concerned question cutting through the excited inter-flight chatter as he twisted in the passenger’s seat to observe the AI’s crumpling form on the stage.

“This is what you get for letting another man fight your battles,” the Valkyrie spoke up sharply. 

“What are you talking about, Esteem?” Evi’a snapped, expression stormy and stomach tight with nausea and adrenaline, the poor leftovers of being abruptly cut out of sync. It was normal for the connection with Exarch to drop after battle, but it was usually a natural, comforting fade back into personal awareness.

“Sort it out for yourselves if you haven’t bloody figured it out already,” their mentor grumbled, and in the ensuing silence they could only look to one another with dark concern before turning their eyes back to the stage. 

Something was wrong. 

“Oh gods, Ser Handeloup’s flight’s being Taken!” Alisaie’s horrified voice broke out over the comm. “The Warden’s still out there, it didn’t dissipate!” 

Evi’a swore as he dropped back down into his seat and tried to pull up his tracking charts, but the Valkyrie’s controls were still recovering from their proximity to the firing of Sid’s Fuller. Grasping for calm, he tried to still his mind enough to access Exarch System...but there was no response. 

“Sid, can you get into Exarch?” he asked, and the au ra gave a growl of frustration. 

“I’m trying! But if you can’t get in it’s sure as hell not likely that I’m going to make it!” The dark knight pounded at the back of the pilot’s seat in frustration, and Evi’a echoed the sentiment, did not envy the man his offlined Valkyrie. They couldn’t fight what they couldn’t see, and with everyone’s flights down a fighter from the Fullers, there was aught to do but converge on where their comrades were having their very souls distorted and hope for the best. 

Motor function in both legs gave out, and he pitched forward onto his stomach, the one working arm softening his fall. Still, he raised his head, spat his hair out of his mouth, grit his teeth. He would not give up, could not stop now...even just a few more particles absorbed would save lives. Already, pilots were dying for his ineptitude. 

*Warning--Critical System Failure, Initializing Shutdown--Initializing Shutdown--* He cried out as the Tower’s aether withdrew, his failing systems no longer able to maintain conductive channeling. The remaining one third of Storge halted its flow, and for a brief, terrifying moment it hung in the blackness, disparate and aimless. 

The memory of tears stung at his optics as the diminished entity wheeled about and shot like an arrow across the night, savagely descended on his brave warriors, tore through flights in the space of a breath, transmogrified and merged Valkyries and their pilots whole into an armor-plated, tanklike version of its former self. He was dimly aware of the platform vibrating with the Golmore’s heavy footfalls , of the giant mech’s burnished copper legs entering his peripheral vision as he watched the renewed Storge abandon the field with a debilitating subsonic shriek. 

“Grandfather!” he heard Lyna cry as she dropped down to his side, all traces of formality forgotten. He wanted to answer her, but scrabble as he might for awareness, he was fading into shutdown. “It’s heading due east…” she choked in a whisper as his vision cut once more. His fingers twitched against the cool stage floor, but he could not manage the universal symbol for flight. 

At the very least, what he’d absorbed remained contained. They were going to have to do the rest without him. Summoning every onze of awareness he had left, he sent a passionate plea to his warrior, that the Keeper might share it with all of his fellow pilots giving chase toward Eorzea Beta. 

_Stand tall..._

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for months, and I'm not sorry at all \o/ I love me some robots and nice jets, as well as self-aware AI exploration. Credit to @AStormcalled for planting the seeds of this inspiration! 
> 
> It's very possible that I'm writing this only for myself...but if you enjoy, please consider taking the time to let me know one way or the other! This fic in particular has taken (and is still taking) a ton of time and effort to plan out. Comments and kudos are writer fuel and very encouraging! Thank you so much for reading and giving this a chance.
> 
> You can hmu at @syrcusgardens on twitter if you like!


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